


don't want none (unless you got guns)

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bro Is Ridiculous Forever, First Meeting, Hook-Up, M/M, Terrible Metaphors and Then They Bone, Terrible Wildlife Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 14:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3123734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You raise an eyebrow over the rim of your shades and put on your best deadpan. "I'm on the hunt for anacondas."</p>
<p>"In a place like this?" Harley shakes his head. "This hardly seems an appropriate environment to coax them out of hiding. Take it from someone who's wrestled a few in his day."</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't want none (unless you got guns)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Polluxander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polluxander/gifts).



You were ready to be wowed by the club scene in Cancun. You really were. You're not some kind of jaded hardass who can't appreciate things on their own merits, preferring instead to compare them constantly to unreasonable, unreachable standards.

What. You're not.

But you aren't thrilled. The house pounding over the sound system is generic, nothing you couldn't hear in Houston or LA or fucking Peoria, whatever, and at least one of the speakers has a blown tweeter. The tinny crackle of it grates on your nerves. You'd drown your sorrows in liquor but the drinks are expensive and weak, prompting comparisons with way too much of the crowd.

You're about ten seconds from just bailing, getting a bottle of tequila and going off to the beach to drink it or something, when you spot the guy. He stands out like a bleach spot on a black t-shirt. He's at least thirty years older than the crowd's median age, for one, and he's dressed like a cartoon Englishman on safari, for two. You watch him lean over the bar to ask for a drink, then raise the pink umbrella'd concoction in an apparently completely sincere toast before he knocks it back like he's doing shots.

Your fuckery senses are tingling.

You cut through the crowd, avoiding stray elbows and tossed hair, so you can materialize at Safari Grandpa's side. "Looks like you're out of a drink, bro," you say as you lean in. "And that's a tragedy. Let a dude help you out?"

He laughs, this double-barreled deep belly laugh that would prompt Santa comparisons if it weren't setting off some depth charges south of your equator. _That_ wasn't in the plan. "Gracious, my boy, that's dashed gentlemanly of you."

"Imagine me tipping my hat right now," you say, turning just so to make your hip brush against his as you lean over the bar. Your ass might be jutting out just a tad impudently and you hope he notices. "Two more of whatever that was," you tell the bartender. You hand over cash, she hands over two ridiculous pink cocktails. Mission accomplished.

You pass on one drink, and Grandpa takes it in his left hand so he can offer his right for you to shake. "Much obliged, my good man. Jake Harley."

"Dirk Strider. You can call me Bro."

Harley smiles, crinkling up his ridiculous mustache. You could probably bang half the people in this club if you put in some effort, and for some reason you are drop-dead certain that this guy is the one. Sometimes your libido is a contrary jerk. 

"What brings you here, Strider?" Harley asks, sipping his alcohol-frosted sugar bomb this time. "Forgive me for the impertinence, but you don't seem like a local."

"Nah, you got me." You raise an eyebrow over the rim of your shades and put on your best deadpan. "I'm on the hunt for anacondas."

"In a place like this?" Harley shakes his head. "This hardly seems an appropriate environment to coax them out of hiding. Take it from someone who's wrestled a few in his day."

You take a sip of your candy cocktail to cover the fact that you literally cannot tell if he's doing that on purpose. Hell with it. "Lucky for me I ran into an expert before I could make any embarrassing mistakes. Think I'd stand a chance of coaxing a demonstration out of you?"

"Serious in your pursuit of the beast, are you?" Harley asks. His eyebrows waggle.

"You know how it is," you say. You give him a smoldering look intense enough to destroy priceless acres of old-growth rainforest. "There's nothing like the thrill of the chase to get your blood pumping."

"A man after my own heart!" Harley declares. 

"Something like that," you agree. That appears to be toastworthy, since Harley tosses back his tequila-frosted sugar bomb in response. Welp. When in Rome, or its shitty spring break tourist equivalent.

At least drinking it fast minimizes the amount of time you're regretting having something that sweet in your mouth. And when you set your empty glass down on the bar, you'd swear you catch an instant where Harley is watching your throat. He likes it when you swallow, huh?

"Well then. Shall we adjourn, chum?"

You're hooking up with a dude who uses the word _chum_ when he's not referring to sharkbait. Okay, you don't know that. Maybe he means that implication to be there. In which case you have to give him props for the brass balls it takes to throw that kind of shade with a dude you're looking to bang. Assuming he _does_ want to bang, which seems about 94.553% likely but every once in a long strange while even you can be wrong about something.

Harley clears his throat and you realize you've been completely failing to answer his question. "Unless, of course, you're shrinking from the prospect of being trounced by a fellow significantly your senior." God, he says that with _a twinkle in his eye_.

"Bring it, Papa Bear," you say. "I can rise to any challenge you throw at me."

Given the look on his face, you're a little surprised he doesn't tackle you right there.

But somehow you both manage to hang onto your composure and leave the bar for a nice gentlemanly stroll down the street to Harley's hotel. You went the ironic (and cheap) hostel route, but Harley's a four-stars kind of guy. You wonder if his room has a hot tub. You wonder if the night clerk thinks anything of him bringing you in at this hour. Hell, maybe you're not the first hottie he's picked up from a night on the town.

You get to the elevator before that line of conjecture can turn to the topic of dashing serial killers on holiday (well, almost before) and don't bother to bring any personal space when you get in.

"So," you say, draping your arms over what you'll admit are some pretty first-rate shoulders, "I'm ready for my first lesson, sensei."

Next thing you know, Harley's big hands are squeezing your ass, firm and confident. Hell with anacondas, you've scored yourself a big old bear. You go in for a kiss but he pulls back, and the elevator dings before you can ask why.

"Not much room in here to wrestle, my boy," he says with a wink.

What a jackass. You let yourself be a tiny bit smitten.

His room is close to the elevator, thank fuck. Your own anaconda is definitely spoiling for a fight by now, and you'd bet if you asked him Harley would be happy to tell you that snake charming is one of his talents.

He actually bows when he gets the door open, and gestures for you to go ahead of him. You tip your baseball cap, because two can play at ironic chivalry. "Charmed, my good sir," you say, because why not go all the way with this shit.

Harley laughs that sexy daddy laugh again. "Who'd have thought I'd find such a gentleman under that rough exterior?"

"Hey, isn't that what a big game hunter does? Track down the most exceptional specimen in an unfamiliar wilderness?"

"I've yet to see how exceptional you are," he says, looking you up and down with an expression that's about half admiration and half amusement.

It's funny—getting that kind of challenge from a guy your age would bore you, but from Harley it's hot. "Well hell, don't take my word for it. Come check out this prime wild stallion you've cornered."

He tosses his hat aside (where do you even _get_ a pith helmet these days?) and fixes you with an excitingly steely gaze as he unbuttons his jacket. You could be getting undressed yourself, but you decide that staring insolently is a better bet, and when Harley's jacket gets exiled to the dresser with his hat he starts rolling up his sleeves. You watch the flex of muscle in forearms dusted with silvery hair. You scrutinize the bulge of his biceps under white oxford cloth. You consider making a gun show comment and then decide you've filled that obligation by considering the possibility.

"Changing the quarry in the middle of the chase, are we?" he says. He advances on you like he's trying to corner something that might make a break for it at any second. 

"Gotta keep things exciting for the seasoned pro somehow," you say. It's kind of a shame you're on vacation and don't have your own toybox on hand. You bet Harley would be all about bridling an uncooperative steed. Or facing down a lion with a signal whip, for that matter.

Whatever, that's some other timeline and this is the one you've got, the one where you're going to pounce on Harley and ride him like a pony. Time to put that plan into action.

This time when you go in for the kiss you get it, firm and somehow ostentatiously straightforward as the rest of him. You can smell a spicy hint of aftershave under the smoke from the club, and his mustache prickles against your skin. Your twink days are honestly pretty much behind you, but you can still appreciate good daddy material. And Harley, with his broad barrel chest and iron-pumping arms wrapped around you, is totally that. You bite his lip, growl against his mouth.

His hands slide up under your shirt and keep going, pulling fabric up and out of the way, and hey, you're not shy. You pull back and lift your arms so he can get your shirt off you, and don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction when he tweaks a nipple piercing on the way.

You look good and you know it, muscles defined by hard strife, the occasional scar adding a little interest to otherwise flawless skin. Harley reels you back in by the beltloops and you savor the contrast, rubbing up against his neatly pressed shirt when you're half-naked. The friction feels pretty damn nice where your personal caged beast is concerned, too, and you can definitely feel Harley packing some heat himself.

"Aha!" Harley palms the front of your jeans, giving you a good squeeze. "It seems we've tracked the monster to its lair."

You rock into his hand shamelessly. "Mmn, I hear they're dangerous when they're cornered." 

"Not to worry," Harley says, giving you another ridiculous wink. "I've trained for this."

Shit, he really has, too. Dude gets your fly undone one-handed. You go for his belt in retaliation. "Better watch out, though, you don't want to wind up ambushed."

He grins. "There's a simple enough solution to that." You raise an eyebrow. "I make a point of doing the ambushing myself."

There's a beat, this one-second pause for you to digest that idea, and then he spins you around and pushes you toward the room's fancy mahogany desk. You go with it, letting yourself get bent over the expensive furniture, and this wasn't quite how you thought this encounter would play out but what's life without a few surprises?

Harley stops there for a second, his hand splayed warm across your back. "Still with me, chum?"

What a gentleman. "Hell yes I am. Show me what you've got."

He yanks your pants down around your thighs and damn, you really are revisiting the highlights of twinkdom here. But why the fuck not? You arch your back and push your frankly fantastic ass into his hands, and he rumbles his appreciation. He lets go and his belt jingles, and you shiver like a roped mustang. You glance back over your shoulder at the sound of a packet tearing and get to watch as he rolls a condom on.

"Can't be too careful when you're venturing into unexplored territory," he says, as if there's a chance you might complain about that.

"Hell no you can't," you agree, because you know the difference between fun risks and stupid ones. You squirm like the needy asshole you are—have—whatever. "You wanna get some body armor and protective camouflage all up on that shit, maybe some of those pheromone sprays that make your prey think you're a wild sexbeast instead of a danger to life and limb."

Harley's laughing at you. Maybe just laughing near you, it mostly looks the same. Whatever, everyone's having a good time, and he's got a packet of lube open which is your cue to go _nnngh_ as his fingers head for your forbidden temple. Dude has exactly zero hesitation, going straight for the gold with what feels like two fingers. You groan, dropping your head to your forearms, pushing back into the stretch. It's _nice_ , getting with a guy who doesn't treat you like the good china with the little fiddly delicate handles that'll break if they get looked at too hard. No, Harley's forging a path through your jungle fearlessly, and you wouldn't wish him on a virgin but for someone like you it's just about perfect. Matter of fact—

"Go ahead and bring out the big guns, bro, this one's feisty," you say.

"Just what I like to hear," he says, all tally-ho enthusiasm and relish. His fingers withdraw and then his dick goes in slow, letting you feel every inch like you're in a size-queen porno. You push back into that feeling, the fullness and not-quite-rightness of it, getting touched in a way your body wasn't meant to take. Hell with _meant to_ anyway, because what that means is all those nerves are confused and easily excited, so the whole neighborhood lights up with echoes of sensation when you get a good deep fuck.

About now with most guys you'd be getting a hand on your dick, but you hold off. Harley seems like the kind of guy who takes reacharounds seriously.

Yep, there we go: a few good thrusts to get the lay of the land, and then one big callused hand slides around your hip to grab the goods. "Hah! Feisty and riled up, indeed."

"Nnh, that's right, better get that monster under control before anyone gets hurt," you say, rocking your hips to encourage him to fuck you harder, "you let it run wild, next thing you know there's, nnf, burninated peasants everywhere, god, _yes_ ," there, that's how you want it, deep and hard with a beat to put the club's shitty music to shame. You give in to that rhythm, let yourself be overwhelmed by the stretch and slide, the sweat at your hairline, the raw smell of sex replacing the room's sterile, conditioned air. This is the animal drive right here, a good hard fuck—and a chance to mark your territory, to come all over furniture that costs more than you do. Hell yes.

Hell _fucking_ yes, you bathe that mahogany in pearls like the magnanimous son of a bitch you are, giving Harley's dick a big friendly python hug for good measure. He grunts, and you steel yourself to hang on until he's done. You're not some fainting flower here, or anything, but this is definitely the tough part. You get a couple of aftershocks and then that weird plateau where you can't get it up again and can't come down all the way, either—but Harley's a stand-up dude and doesn't leave you hanging too long. He shudders as he finishes off, giving you one more sexy papa-bear growl, and both of you slump in relief when he's done.

You lie there for a minute and pant like winded dogs. He's kind of heavy on your back but whatever, you're cool. You listen to your heartbeat in your ears, feel the slow softening of his dick in your ass. This is a way more crucial moment than most people realize. It's so easy to fuck up the dismount.

"And _that_ ," Harley says contentedly, "is how you wrestle an unruly dance floor anaconda."

You snicker. How is this guy even real? "The lesson is much appreciated," you say. He pulls out, and you stand up slowly. Not too sore. Not too tired, either. Harley still has his ridiculous costume on, and you think you really want to see him out of it. "Can I use the same technique to tame a wild shower python?"

Harley raises his bushy eyebrows. "In principle, absolutely," he says. "In practice, I'm not quite so spry as I was at your age."

Hell no, you're not walking away that easily. This guy is too weird and too much fun. "In that case maybe it's my turn to demonstrate some mad skills," you say. "You have never seen kung fu until you've seen my cuddle style."

Harley snorts a laugh, but the important part is he nods. "And indeed I have not! So I would be honored by a demonstration."

Score.


End file.
